


A Fear Unknown

by LoveAlltheSherlocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveAlltheSherlocks/pseuds/LoveAlltheSherlocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traumatization of an unknown effect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for drug use and overdose, some violence later. Killing scene, may trigger.

Thanks to the Homeless Net, Sherlock was able to get to the factory just in time to stop Jensen Diray before he could run off. John was ten steps behind him, looking behind every few seconds to see if Lestrade’s car had caught up yet. No.

But Sherlock knew he would get to him before Lestrade. And so he ran ahead, shoes clicking the road-and when he turned the corner he could almost touch him. Two more steps, and he tackled Diray. Diray turned underneath and fought at him, scratching and punching at Sherlock. Sherlock pulled a gun from his waist, settled in between his belt and his back, and (after hesitating) slammed the handle against Diray’s face, knocking him out. Sherlock shuddered and rolled his neck, cracking it.

John was just behind him when he stood up and stepped over Diray. He held the gun away from him, dangling it in his hand towards John. “Take it,” he said quietly, shaking the gun in his direction.  John looked confused.

“Sherlock, you know how to hold a gu-“

But Sherlock shook it even more, turning his head away, and shouted at him. “Take the gun, John!” And john snatched it out of his hands before stuffing it under his belt. Immediately, Sherlock gained his composure and exhaled.

“How in the hell did you grab it?!” He walked over and gently kicked Diray’s side. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Please, John, do give me some credit.” He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and click-click-click went the buttons. John hunched over, breathing in.

The sound of sirens came into ear shot. Sherlock turned quickly as John stood up. “Wait, or go?”

John looked down at Diray. “Wait, I guess. No sense hurrying.”

“Fine.” Sherlock leaned over Diray and reached into his pockets, finally pulling out a ticket for the cinema.

“See? He was there. 3:40 pm. If he had contacted her at all, if he even bumped into her, he’d have grabbed-“ Sherlock kept searching the pockets, the jacket, until finally he pulled out a card.

John took a sharp breath in. “But her ID? Why? That’s so obvious-“

“It was a disguise, John. She was never at the station when we were tracking her down. Look at his build. He’s not very short, and thinner than I am-he was dressed as her and grabbed our attention Tuesday night. So we’d follow, thinking it was her. The blonde hairs on the jacket, remember?”

John rubbed his neck. “It was a wig. You said it was fake hair.”

“Yes, because it was. Stupid, _Stupid_.” Sherlock shook his head. “How could I have not noticed before?”

But before he could get an answer the Yard’s cars pulled up, one with Lestrade, one with Sally, and an ambulance. Lestrade walks up and kicks Diray. “Take him,” he tells the officer stepping out of his passenger seat. “I’ll question him later.”

Looking at Sherlock, he takes a deep breath. He looks at John. “Nice with the gun. Saw from the bridge.”

John cleared his throat. “Oh, um…no, that wasn’t me. All Sherlock.” Sherlock stepped away just then, clicking the buttons on his phone. He coughed.

Lestrade’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull.”Sh-Sherlock? Apparently I need glasses.” His hands rested on his hips. “Sherlock, really? After last-“

In an instant Sherlock turned around. “Shut up, Lestrade. You’re wasting time.”

John glanced over at him. He was breathing quite heavily. Lestrade cleared his throat. “Right. Anything else, then? Or are we just taking back?”

Sherlock huffed. “Take him back. He’s been dressing as her all week. She’s probably in the basement here.” He turns to step away.

Lestrade looked toward the building. “Aren’t you coming down, then?”

Sherlock stopped. “Mmm…no. Come John.” He started to walk away. Lestrade gave John a look, to which John could only shrug, and follow.

When he caught up with Sherlock, John lightly hit his hand against his arm to tear his attention away from the Blackberry. Sherlock didn’t even look up. Its buttons went click-click-click.“What?”

“You didn’t want to stay.”

“That’s what I said.” Click-click-click.

“But…” John paused. “Why?”

“Not important.” Sherlock looked up from the phone and John knew not to inquire further despite wanting to. “Food?”

John thought. “Yes, nothing at the flat.”

“Angelo’s is just-“

John interrupted. “Angelo’s is fine.”

***

“What was that about, the gun, then?” John twirled some spaghettis onto his fork. Sherlock was lightly picking tiny piece of the bread and eating them slowly. Better than nothing, John though, but still not a lot after 3 days of working.

Sherlock looked up from his hands. His answer was even shorter than before. “Nothing.” His eyes looked past him somehow, and through him too.

John swallowed and looked away.

***

He was reading the paper and drinking the last sip of tea in his cup when Sherlock padded down the stairs in his flannels, t-shirt and dressing gown. His eyes looked heavy. John glanced up.

“Didn’t you sleep? You went in quite early.”

Sherlock walked past him and into the kitchen. He came back with the kettle and held it to John’s cup, and once John realized and held the cup out for him, he poured.

“I-err….thanks. How did you-“

“You were tilting it all the way back.” Was the monotone reply as Sherlock back from the kitchen and past him. He threw himself on the couch laptop in hand.

John looked at him. “So?”

“So?”

John sighed. “Did you sleep at all?”

Sherlock typed away. “No.”

John looked back to the newspaper. Better to ask questions with no eye contact. “How long’s it been?”

No response.

John rolled his eyes. He heard Sherlock stop typing and shifting on the couch. The silence was going to be broken, so he waited.

It was barely a whisper.

“Three weeks.”

John nearly spit the tea out. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock started typing again. John threw the paper down and set the teacup onto the table. He pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to the couch. Sherlock didn’t look away from the screen, typing even faster than before. Who types that fast?

“Let me see.” John said quietly. Sherlock slightly leaned away from him and replied, “You’re in my light.”

“I don’t care. Show me.”

“I don’t even know what-“ But before he could say anything else, John grabbed his left arm and pushed his dressing gown sleeve up. Five patches on his arm, 3 holes at the crook of his elbow. They were swollen.  John couldn’t breathe.

“Sherlock.”

But Sherlock had slapped his arm away, and shook his sleeve back down. Back to typing.

“Sherlock, you promised.”

“Promised not to what.” It was a statement more than a question.

“Wha-what do you think? How long has this been going on, Sherlock?” he was getting angry now.

“I’ve told you, John. Three weeks. More or less.” Sherlock stared at the screen. But he stopped typing.

John sighed. “If you would just tell me-“

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “There is nothing to tell.”

“You’re lying.”

“It wouldn’t matter-”

“It does to me!” John yelled out, making Sherlock jump and hold himself for just a second- eyes wide and breathing hard. He looked straight ahead.

John looked down at him, and he immediately regretted it. Sherlock looked like a child- trapped within his own body; he was shaking slightly but trying not to show it. His chest was moving rapidly and John could swear he might have been able to hear his heart pounding in his chest. He had his right hand pressed into the crook of his left elbow, where John knew it hurt most. He gingerly kneeled down beside the couch, careful not to startle Sherlock. Sherlock kept looking away.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherlock.” He whispered, slowly moving his arm. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice the movement-his eyes were jittering back and forth and he was breathing even harder, if possible. John lightly touched his arm, making him jump slightly and turning his head to him.

“I’m sorry.” John said quietly, looking into the green fields that were Sherlock’s eyes. They seemed darker than usual. Sherlock just blinked.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Are you alright?” He placed his hand over Sherlock’s leg just above the laptop. Sherlock glances down at it but say nothing. He takes a breath.

“Fine. Fine. Fine.” Sherlock John had heard that before…but when?

The cabbie. When the cabbie came and picked Sherlock up and Sherlock didn’t give him any clues, any warnings that anything was wrong. He just acted normal and John had to find him.

This was like that exactly. Except…

Except Sherlock couldn’t hide it. And not after this long. John always knew when something was wrong. And Sherlock jumping? Being…vulnerable? Shaking the gun, making John take it away? What the hell was it?

What was he not telling him?

Sherlock interrupted his thoughts and sighed. He slowly stood, and John took it as a warning to move. Sherlock stepped past him and walked upstairs. He returned, 3 minutes later, in jeans and a button down-how did he do that?-and grabbed his coat. John stood up.

“Where are you going?”

But the only response he got was the slamming door.

***

John searched underneath every pillow, in every nook and cranny until he finally found his phone tucked underneath a stack of magazines on the kitchen table. He was sure he had it in his pocket. Sherlock must have used it-he categorized the messages by conversation and scrolled through the most recent texts.

 **Need more Benzodiazepine. John can’t sleep. SH**

 **Not giving him too much, are we? MH**

John furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn’t taking Benzodiazepine. He was sleeping just fine.

 **Course not. SH**

 **Then why more? MH**

 **To help him forget. SH**

 **Nothing will help him forget. MH**

It almost seemed like there were a sub-conversation going on here. John read on.

 **Mix with just a tad bit of Cocaine or Morphine and one can forget anything. SH**

 **Temporarily, of course. SH**

John sank back into the chair. He looked to the couch where Sherlock was. He didn’t need to read any more.

But he looked anyway.

 **He could overdose. MH**

 **Not likely. I wouldn’t allow that. SH**

 **Wouldn’t you? Because it was him? MH**

 **Yes. SH**

 **But it’s not him. MH**

 **Yes it is. SH**

 **You do know I see everything. MH**

 **Unfortunately. SH**

 **Then you already know. MH**

 **Mycroft. Really. SH**

 **I can’t allow you to keep doing this to yourself. John would kill me. MH**

 **That’s why I said John needed it. SH**

 **I can find another source easily. SH**

 **I’ll be in the office tomorrow afternoon. Delete the messages. MH**

 **I always do. SH**

John couldn’t breathe. He deleted the messages. Why didn’t Sherlock do that before? It must have been when John was in the shower. Sherlock was scrambling in the kitchen when he came down. Maybe he was trying to delete the messages then. Or was he leaving them on purpose? A cry for help?

…And then he made tea. He never made tea.

And now, he’s done it twice in 24 hours.

John’s chest felt tight. He opened the phone again and clicked to send a new message. This one was going to Lestrade.

 **I have a quick question for you. If you’re not busy.**

He set the phone on the table. An eternity later his phone buzzed. He grabbed it quickly and slid it open.

 **No, just watching the game. What is it?**

 **Umm, earlier today you said something about Sherlock after the gun thing? And he stopped you?**

 **Yes. What about it?**

 **Well…what was that?**

A few length minutes before another buzz.

 **He obviously stopped me for a reason. Can’t tell.**

John sighed.

 **Come on, Lestrade. He’s been…weird.**

 **Yes, but he’s always like that.**

John stood up and dropped the phone almost too hard. He immediately picked it back up.

 **I know but seriously. He’s not right. Please.**

Two long minutes.

 **It was Thursday, when you were at the clinic  and he came to the scene by himself.**

 **Yes?** John was breathing hard now.

 **He just sort of freaked out al Sally. Not that…that he doesn’t normally.**

 **Well what happened?**

 **She pulled her gun and said “think fast freak” and fired at him with her safety on. I suspended her but still.**

 **That’s it?**

 **No.**

 **…Greg.**

 **Fine. So she turns around to shoot and the second the gun’s pointed at him he covers his hears, and when she pulls the trigger he did something really weird.**

 **…What was it?**

 **Well he dropped to the ground and screamed. Not like a girl scream but yelled really loud. He was shaking. When he realized the gun never went off he**

John waited for the next message.

 **Stood up quickly and acted normal before leaving. But you could tell-it was really odd. Like, he stopped being himself for a minute.**

John took a deep breath.

 **You should have seen it. Something snapped with him. He’s not been the same since, you’re right.**

But John had seen it, just now. Or, well…a glimpse of it. Was it worse at the crime scene then? And what the hell…guns? Guns…

 **Thanks. Don’t tell him I asked.**

 **Of course.**

Just then, the front door slammed. John jumped up and stuffed his phone in his pocket before stepping into the living area. He listened for footsteps. Slowly he heard them coming up the stairs. Sherlock’s head came into view.

He was almost hunched over. His curls hung over his forehead and his arms were stuffed into his pockets, almost as if he was literally holding himself together. At the top of the stairs he straightened himself out and walked toward his room. John slowly followed in the same direction.

“Sherlock?” John took another step. “Sherlo-“

Sherlock’s door slammed.

John sighed. Maybe it was best to leave him alone for now. Sherlock knew when he needed help, honestly. And so John slowly walked back to his chair and sat down. He looked at the clock. 3:36. He looked again. 3:39. Only three minutes? Soon it was 4:17 and the 4:58. John read the paper and a chapter of his book. Sherlock didn’t come out.

And all of a sudden it was 5:12 and John heard something. It wasn’t loud but he did, in fact, hear it. It sounded familiar. Like when Sherlock would try to sleep a full night and every once in a while you hear his rustling, or him hitting the ground as he fell off the bead during a particularly vivid dream. John remembered the first night that happened; Sherlock had bruised his head on the bedside table and all John could remember was Sherlock asking “Why, why John, why didn’t I save her?” And John couldn’t answer, who the hell was he even talking about? So he held ice to his head and “Shushed” him until he stopped mumbling, and eventually fell asleep. And the next morning Sherlock didn’t even remember. But the sound-he remembered the sound of him falling of the bed like it was yesterday because he has done it at least three times since then. John always went to check on him.

And do John rushed to the door of Sherlock’s room and jiggled the doorknob. It was locked. He pressed his ear against the door to listen. There were few sounds coming from the room-some rustling around, Sherlock mumbling or groaning (what was it?) and then a small thud. John’s eyes widened. It just sounded bad in there. It just…felt bad. He stepped away and threw himself into the door, full-force, and the door swung open.

It was a mess, of course, but that was beside the point. The light of the window brightened the room. But the sun and the fact that the window was closed all night and the door too made it insufferably warm. John was already sweating in the two seconds he stood there before he realized the small shape of Sherlock’s body on the floor, nearly turned over. He wasn’t moving. He-

John dropped to his knees beside him, feeling his wrist. No pulse. No pulse-he turned Sherlock over on his back and leaned to his chest. No breathing. No-no. He pulled out his phone and dialed the only man he knew could get him an ambulance fast enough.

“John?”

“You have to send a car, Mycroft, to the flat-he-“

“John. You have to calm down-“

“You knew?! I saw the messages. You knew, and he was there today, and now he’s- Mycroft, he’s dead. He’s dead.” He kept saying it over and over, as if it would reverse it. "He's dead."

Mycroft breathed in. “And ambulance is on the way. I’ll meet you there.” Click.

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, but they were dark and unresponsive.  He patted his face, he yelled out his name, he nearly cried. But nothing happened. And because it was the last thing he thought of, the only thing he could think of doing-John started doing compressions. And he kept saying Sherlock’s name, in hopes that Sherlock would answer his call.

 


	3. Chapter 3

John is running, running to keep up with the medics and the stretcher where Sherlock lay, oxygen mask over his mouth.

Two nurses run up, and a doctor too-the doctor turns his face to John and asks question after question.

“You found him like this?”

“Yeah-yeah, had to break down the door-“

“Was his behavior different before?”

“Yes, signs of possible trauma in the recent past but I don’t know what-he left the house and came back looking sick. Shut himself in his room-“

“Drug or alcohol use?”

John couldn’t open his mouth- They’d want to evaluate him, get him a psych test, he’d have to stay In the hospital if they knew. They’d send him to rehab. Sherlock would hate him for that.

But John was a doctor. And Sherlock was, in every sense of the word, dead on that gurney. He owed it to Sherlock to tell them the truth. He owed it to Mycroft, he owed it to himself.

“Past use of Morphine and cocaine-he was clean but picked it up again recently. And possibly Benzodiazepine, I saw some texts about mixing it with the morphine-or-or something, I don’t remember-“

He was a doctor, for Christ’s sake, why couldn’t he remember? But the doctor didn’t say anything after that-because Mycroft met them at the end of the hall. His face was frozen. He pointed his umbrella.

“This way.” He followed behind them, and John skipped a few steps to catch up. The gurney didn’t even stop; it was rolled in the right direction and through a set of double doors that latched behind them. John ran up to the window looking in. Mycroft slowly followed.

They were putting tubes in, tearing off Sherlock’s nicotine patches and leaving red marks where they were. After a minute John heard a beeping through the window that he knew all too well.

Sherlock was going into cardiac arrest.

The doctors and nurses moved faster all of a sudden. Hitting into high gear, they pulled out the defibrillator and began to prepare it. John heard Mycroft take in a sharp breath beside him. When the doctor yelled “Clear!” he turned around, stepping away. But John couldn’t tear his eyes away; His hand moved up and lightly touched the window.

The first shock nearly tossed Sherlock off the bed, he was so thin. John couldn’t help but feel guilty and he noticed Sherlock’s ribs nearly poking through his skin. He needed to eat more- regardless of the effect on the brain. People would think he was anorexic, for God’s sake. And the paleness- John never really noticed before. He was so…light. Even lighter than Mycroft.

A second shock, and nothing. John’s eyebrows furrowed together, and his eyes stung. Sherlock was too defiant for this. He had to stay alive. He just had to. There was no world without Sherlock, anymore.

John felt Mycroft shift behind him. He turned around slightly to see Mycroft’s head bowing down, hand rubbing his neck. He was shaking slightly.

He turned back to the window. The doctors were preparing for a third shock. John’s heart sunk; if this one didn’t revive him…that was it. That was the end.

“Clear!” Went the doctor, and Sherlock’s body jumped once more.

Everyone in the room looked at the screen. Normally John would have too. But he was looking at Sherlock’s face, hoping-talking to him in his mind. The long beep of the monitor told him it was long over, but John wouldn’t stop hoping. Hi held his breath.

He heard Mycroft’s soft voice from behind him. “Is he…?” But John couldn’t say anything.

 _Please, God, if anything-_ John didn’t pray much, didn’t pray ever. But this would be the time to start. Perhaps Sherlock would hear him. _Sherlock, please._

And then suddenly he heard a beep, and another one, and another. John looked at the monitor, his blood pressure was rising and he had a pulse. The doctor took a deep breath and began preparing a pump for Sherlock’s stomach.

John let all of his breath out, leaning into the window. “God…” He turned and slid down the wall with his back, holding his head in his hands.

Mycroft heard john’s voice and swung around, walking to the window. He exhaled. “Jesus.” He gripped onto the umbrella tightly, holding it close to his chest.

John kept breathing hard. His heart was pounding, his stomach was flipping. All he could do was whisper to himself- “Thank you, thank you, thank you. God. “

He stood up slowly and leaned his forehead on the glass, keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s face. The pump was ready, now, the doctor was gesturing to the nurse.

She walked up to the window where John and Mycroft were, and pulled the curtain over it. There was a sheet of blue.

John sighed. Mycroft huffed.

There was nothing to do now, but wait.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft didn’t have the faintest idea of the time, or day.

This was unusual, for Mycroft.

He crossed his right ankle over his left, then switched ankles.

He uncrossed them and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. His phone went off.

 **Shall I cancel the dinner, Sir? Anthea**

He sighed.

 **I assumed that would have been done already. MH**

 **My apologies, Sir. Just checking. Consider it cancelled. Anything else? Anthea**

 **Clothes, perhaps. MH**

 **Of course, Sir. An hour at most. Anthea**

Mycroft stood and looked down. Sherlock wasn’t going to wake tonight, that was certain. Knowing his brother, he’d leave everyone to deal with their misery for as long as he could. He was probably enjoying this. Mycroft needed sleep.

 **Cancel clothes. Bring the car here at once. Pick Dr. Watson up first. MH**

 **Of course, Sir. Anthea**

***

Mycroft was 10, Sherlock was 3. Sherlock still wasn’t talking. The thing was, Sherlock _could_ talk. Ho could talk very well, in fact. He could form sentences that made sense, and he asked questions all the time, about everything. But now, he was silent.

Mycroft talked for him, mostly. When they were alone together, Sherlock would occasionally say things. One-word sentences, “Hmm” or “Hmm?” or even, if Mycroft was lucky, “Yes” or “No”.

When they were with the family, though, Sherlock never spoke.

Father didn’t seem to mind that, though. The last time Sherlock spoke to him, he yelled at him to shut up.

“Hard to relax and watch the game if you’re asking all those questions,” was his excuse. Sherlock only wanted to know how the telly was able to “hold all of those shows”.

Mother only smiled and said he was getting too clever for his own good, asking things. “You can’t move too fast, you know. Go play with your brother.”

Mycroft and Sherlock didn’t need to speak, though. They could spend the day together not having shared a word. They would walk to the park and look at the ducks, sit on the bench and watch people. They would smile at silent jokes. They didn’t ever do anything in particular. They just…did.

Mycroft talked in case he could get Sherlock to say something. Sometimes he wondered if maybe something was wrong with Sherlock. Maybe he wasn’t clever…but “special”. That’s what his best friend Jonathan called him when they were alone, when Mummy took Sherlock and went grocery shopping.

“Your brother’s weird.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “No he’s not.”

“Yeah, he is. He’s special, right? He doesn’t talk.”

Mycroft tensed his jaw. “He just doesn’t like to talk.”

He never invited Jonathan over again. Mummy and Sherlock came home a little later, after Jonathan left. Sherlock walked right into Mycroft’s room and sat on the bed. Mycroft looked up from his book.

Sherlock pulled 2 candies from his pocket and held one out to Mycroft. It was a chocolate, with caramel inside. Mycroft looked at Sherlock questioningly, but Sherlock only smiled with the corner of his lip. It looked unnatural-but maybe that was because Sherlock didn’t smile too much. They ate the candy in silence.

“Thank you.” Mycroft closed the book and pulled out the chess set he received for his birthday. Sherlock sat in front of him on the floor and waited to set up the pieces.

***

Sherlock was 5, Mycroft 12.

Father liked drinking more now. His patience was, of course, thinned out even more-especially in Sherlock’s case. Sherlock talked way too much now, talking about anything he saw that day and everything he saw in you, at that moment. Father still didn’t like it, but Sherlock couldn’t help himself. It just came out, the words, and Sherlock apologized every time Father was angry for it.

Mycroft was reading _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ in his chair when it happened.

He heard a quiet noise, almost a squeal, and a slap. Mycroft winced and closed his eyes a moment before opening his bedroom a crack and looking out. Within seconds, Father was headed toward the bedroom, and Mycroft leaned back, out of sight. He heard the door close, and opened his own. He walked quietly past to door (Father had started the shower) and walked into the living room.

Sherlock’s back was facing him, and he was hunched over in his own ball. He was tracing letters onto the carpet. Mycroft touched his shoulder, guiding him to stand and turn.

His right cheek was red. It wouldn’t bruise, but Mycroft took his hand and, wetting a rag on the way, led Sherlock to follow him out the door. They walked to the park, Sherlock holding the rag to his face and looking around him.

Mycroft said nothing. Sherlock did, too. But they held hands on the bench.

***

Sherlock was 10, Mycroft 17.

Sherlock was telling Mycroft about a c _urious_ experiment at school, one that involved-

But Mycroft gasped at the letter he was holding, interrupting him.

The University allowed Mycroft to apply early, and accepted. Sherlock said nothing.

Two months had passed and everything was packed, Except for the desk and the bed in his room. Sherlock still said nothing.

“I’ll be back in the winter,” Mycroft said. “For Christmas.” But Sherlock only looked at him, expression inscrutable. Mycroft sighed.

“We can’t be together forever, you know. You can’t stop talking just because you’re upset with me.”

Sherlock went into his own room.

On the day Mycroft was leaving, Father was packing their hired car and Mother was crying. Sherlock stood on the front step, hands in his coat pocket. Mycroft faced him and stepped forward.

“Really not going to say anything, then?”

Sherlock’s eyes begged him to stay.

“I want to learn, Sherlock. How can you be against that? I can get a job, and an apartment. You can live with me then.”

But Sherlock only looked down at his feet. Mycroft willed him speak with his mind-he just wanted to hear his voice. One more time.

Mycroft sighed. “Nothing?”

Sherlock’s head looked up and their eyes met.

“Good-bye.”

***  
The parcel came in the mail, with no return address. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tore it open. It was a phone. It was heavy and brickish, as most phones were then, but it was an invisible line connected to the world, but more importantly, connected to Mycroft. He looked in the address book, which had one name.

 **Now I’ll never call you.**

 **You never do anyway. MH**

Sherlock read it in Mycroft’s voice.

 **Stop watching the apartment. SH**

He liked the way that looked. It matched Mycroft’s now. Nearly.

 **A simple thank you would suffice. Stop getting into trouble. MH**

Sherlock smiled.

That night, his phone buzzed on the table.

 **Goodnight. MH**

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he knew he didn’t need to.

***

He stood at the foot of the bed, looking at Sherlock’s hair. The dark curls stood out against the white pillowcase, and were wild against each other.

He willed for Sherlock to speak again, but it was no use. A light knock at the door. Anthea. She stepped inside the room, looking at her phone.

Mycroft straightened himself. “Where’s Dr. Watson?”

Anthea continued to type into the phone. “He is in the hall, Sir. He said he will wait. Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

She left the room. Mycroft stepped to stand at Sherlock’s side now. He took Sherlock’s phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table next to the bed.

“You don’t have to talk, but you can at least text me when you’re awake.”

He felt stupid, talking to Sherlock. Even if he were awake he wouldn’t respond.

On the way out of the door, his eyes met John’s and he knew Sherlock wouldn’t be alone.

Well, he was always alone.

But at least John would be alone with him.


	5. Chapter 5

John stood, forehead against the door to Sherlock’s room. He heard the faint beeps of the monitors behind him and in the rooms nearby, and doctors and nurses talking to patients, and their families; but he didn’t register these sounds. His fingers rested lightly on the door handle, leaving smudges behind them. He glanced down at them, willing himself to open the door. But he hasn’t seen Sherlock since the nurse closed the window blinds.

It felt…odd, having this barrier between them. Sherlock never needed any barriers, and he certainly never allowed them, with John especially. There were no doors closed that remained, no locks unpicked, nothing separating John’s life from Sherlock’s anymore. They’d never spent a night apart, now that he thought about it. Never more than…twelve hours, and that was only when John went to Sarah’s and refused to come home until he’d let off some steam. Even then, though- Sherlock would text him and he would automatically respond, telling Sherlock where the salt was kept or if he’d pick something up on the way home. Sometimes those were the only times Sherlock said anything meaningful- _Of course I can’t continue the case without you_ or _Everyone knows you are the only person I rely on._ It was these times John let the situation that had let him to leave in the first place slip away (and he’d want to return home), because he’d seen a softer side of Sherlock.

But now he stood at the door, counting to 10 and then counting again, to prepare himself for seeing Sherlock in a hospital bed. Mycroft looked stricken when he left the room, nodding to John, but was sure to _try_ and compose himself before speaking.

“You’ll text me if-“

There was no need to finish. “Of course,” John said.

Mycroft nodded again and followed Anthea out of the hallway.

That was fifteen minutes ago. John wasn’t completely sure what he was afraid of-Sherlock was alive, for now, and could wake up. He’d seen many of his friends in this same position, even worse. This couldn’t be much different, in a professional sense. In an emotional sense, sure.

But he wanted to know _why._ And Sherlock’s possible answers were scaring him the most. Why did this happen? What was Sherlock so occupied with? Was Jim involved, and it just threw Sherlock over the edge? Was he using just because, or for a reason? What was he using, exactly?

It was all too much.

But the more he thought about it, the more he needed to _see_ Sherlock. To hear his voice, if possible. To feel stupid when he talked to him. And that was what pushed him to open the door and step through the first barrier dividing them.

Sherlock was still, of course. His head was turned toward the door and if John didn’t know any better he’d think Sherlock was just pretending to sleep. There was an IV, a monitor. Normal pulse and BP. A beep every 3 seconds, and silence in between. John’s pounding of John’s heart seemed to fill the room, every corner pulsing. He slowly moved over to the bed and sat in the chair Mycroft left, setting his backpack down beside him. He set his mobile on his knee.

Sherlock really _did_ resemble a porcelain doll; perfectly sculpted cheekbones and lips pink enough to have faint lipstick, but not too much. His hair, even after all of this, seemed to fall perfectly- curls and all. His pale skin was smooth, like set clay. John couldn’t look away-part of him was admiring Sherlock’s beauty, the other willing with all of his heart for Sherlock’s eyes to open. Sherlock wasn’t there if his eyes were closed, John felt it. He felt alone in the room, and Sherlock’s eyes were the only way to reach him.

After a few minutes John looked around the room. He noticed a folded paper taped o the wall by the television. As he got up and walked closer to it, it was less white and more yellow, grime across the edges and a few tears. Written on the outside was “ **Misstur Holms”** and on the inside was **“feel beter soon”**. There were no signatures, only a few dirty fingerprints and drawn cats and hearts. John smiled. He wondered Sherlock’s reaction to it, and how Mycroft even received it. He never associated himself with the irregulars, that was only Sherlock’s doing. But John took the “card” down and propped it up against the telephone on the side table, closest to Sherlock’s head. He looked at his phone, deleting old messages and remembering to text Lestrade.

 **Nothing yet.**

 **Damn. How long have you been there?**

It felt like forever.

 **Just arrived a bit ago, his brother’s been here all night.**

 **Are they expecting him to wake up?**

John couldn’t imagine if he didn’t.

 **Supposedly, but they don’t know when. Or how he’ll be.**

 **He’s just putting us through the ringer.**

John laughed. That was probably true. Sherlock’s always been a bit dramatic.

 **He better quit soon, then.**

 **Yeah, it’s rough. He’ll be up and around in no time, I’ll bet.**

John felt the placation from a mile away.

 **Yeah. I’ll text if anything happens.**

 **Good, thanks.**

He set the phone on the table beside the card, and sits back. He could pull out a book but he doesn’t want to. He just wants to wait for Sherlock to wake. And so he sits and bounces his leg, looking at Sherlock’s monitor.

***

Three days passed. John texted back and forth to Mycroft and Lestrade, saying the same thing. Once Mycroft switched with john for a night, surprisingly coming in khakis and a thermal shirt and scarf. Lestrade came by too between cases, and watched a game with John on the telly. It was nice, having someone for a bit, but it was a relief when the door was closed, leaving John to enjoy the silence with Sherlock.

He talked to him at times too, rambling about little nothings to distract himself. He gave him messages from Lestrade and Mycroft, and at one point, Practiced asking why Sherlock had done this. Sherlock said nothing.

He must have dozed, because he heard soft snoring before waking up in a jolt. He had dreamed of bullets, ricocheting in the tunnel when he and Sarah had been taken-but Sarah wasn’t there, it was Sherlock. And the lady was a man, tall and thin and towering over John eerily. The bullets kept moving, and all John wanted was for it all to go away. Sherlock said something, but John couldn’t understand the language. He understood inside the dream, but couldn’t grasp it once he woke up. It was a terrible feeling. He breathed hard, pulse racing, sweat beading on his neck. He looked over at Sherlock.

For one second, it seemed as if Sherlock was a _ctually_ blinking. Breathing on his own. But that was insane. John closed his eyes a moment and leaned forward, rubbing his eyes. He stayed like that, unmoving, until he heard a sound. It was a quiet sound, but it filled the whole room. John looked up and whispered.

“Sherlock?”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock made the noise again, a muffled noise resembling a small moan. His throat moved when he did, and John wouldn’t blink. Sherlock’s long index finger twitched. He blinked once, then twice, and John sat up, disbelieving, but hoping. _God, please. Please-_

Sherlock moved slightly and opened his eyes, making John grab his phone from the side table with quick hands. He slid it open, _New text message to-_ but Sherlock’s hand weakly touched his, and gently pushed the phone down, making John look up at him. Sherlock’s head was turned toward him, heavy eyes barely open. Sherlock spoke, almost a whisper.

“It can wait. They can wait.”

John absently stuffed the phone in his pocket, watching Sherlock. It was obvious he remembered what happened, but he asked anyway.

“Do you know-“

“Yes.” Sherlock turned his head away to look ahead of him, expressionless.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was stern, but it cracked at the end.

Sherlock looked at his fingers, flexing them.

“Sherlock.”

Nothing.

“Sherlock, why?”

Sherlock turned his head quickly and spoke quickly. “What?”

“Why, for the love of _God_ , would you do that? You were dead, do you know that?” John’s heartbeat rose. Sherlock sighed.

“Wasn’t,” he coughed, “Wasn’t on purpose.”

“You can tell me anything, you know. I am your frie-“ but Sherlock interrupted him.

“Don’t.”

John shifted in his seat. “Sherlock, I just want to know why. What is it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It is not-“

“If you even try saying important, I swear on my life Sherlock I will text Mycroft, right now.”

Sherlock turned his head back to him, a pleading look in his eyes.

“You don’t understand, John, I can’t.”

“But you can!” John exclaimed. “This is me we’re talking abou-“

Suddenly there is a lot of noise outside in the hospital halls. There are a couple shrieks and shouts, and John saw Sherlock close his eyes and turn his head.

“What-“ John stood and went to the window to see what was going on. He put his finger through the blinds and separated them. There were police outside. And they were headed in the direction of Sherlock’s room, seemingly.

“Sherlock? Do you-“

But one of the men got closer to Sherlock’s room and was, indeed, headed straight for it. John jumped back instinctively just before the officer kicked the door open with brute force, making Sherlock jump and John too.

“Hands above your head!” the officer yells, and John and Sherlock do. John glances over at Sherlock with just his eyes; His eyelids are shut and he’s slightly shaking. “John-“ But the officer interrupts, yelling.

“Shut up, now! You-“ he points to John with his gun- “Get over this way.” John sidesteps closer to the door to the room, watching Sherlock still. Sherlock has calmed down now, but his eyes are still closed.

Suddenly Lestrade comes into the room, pushing past the man at the door. “Sherlock, what in bloody-“ The officer with the gun cuts him off.

“Sir, hands behind your head!”

“Lestrade does so but argues. “Look, I’m Detective Inspector-“

“I know who you are, Sir, but I have direct orders from the Yard.” The man steps closer to Sherlock’s bed now, pulling out handcuffs. Lestrade steps forward “What-“ But the second officer at the door points his gun at him, making him stop.

John’s pulse is flooding his ears and he has absolutely no idea what is going on. The officer steps closer to Sherlock and John yells out involuntarily.

“What are you doing?!”

The officer doesn’t respond except to Sherlock. “Sir, you’re under arrest for the murder of-“ John’s heart stops and he yells out. “What?!” Lestrade joins him and starts arguing against the officer’s words, but he keeps talking. He attaches one cuff to Sherlock’s wrist, and Sherlock doesn’t even respond. He just lies there, motionless. The officer attaches the second cuff to Sherlock’s other wrist and John’s breathing heavy now. The second officer grabs his and Lestrade’s and pulls them back to leave the room.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John pulls away and rushes to where Sherlock is, but the officer who cuffed him stops him and pushes him back. John sees a glimpse of Sherlock’s face, eyes open now. He’s looking back at John, face unreadable. It’s like he knew, he saw it coming. Did he-

“Sherlock!” John tries to see him again but the officer is pushing out of the room, slamming the door in front of his face. John’s pounding on it now, fists in pain but he doesn’t care, and Lestrade is on the phone. John can’t think straight. He’s looking around, where’s Mycroft? He should already know- John pulls out his own phone and slides it open.

What the hell was going on?

***

 **Sir, urgent news of your brother. Anthea**

 **Sir, please respond. Anthea**

 **Sherlock’s been arrested for murder. Anthea**

 _Mycroft, they’ve just come in and arrested Sherlock. What’s going on? J_

 _Mycroft, get over here. Now. J_

 **_DI L here, are you near the hospital? Sherlock’s been arrested._ **

Mycroft sat in his chair, phone in hand. He stared at the screen as the text messages flooded in, these one and others. The phone rang and vibrated, and he just looked. Watched at the screen changed colors and flashed at him in the dark room. He closed his eyes.

“Sherlock, what did you-” he muttered to himself, but couldn’t even finish.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make a few notes before continuing this fic further, before any more comments come in.
> 
> If you didn't see from my profile, I am an American. As much as I wish I were British, I'm not. When I started this story I had a completely different feel to it, up until two chapters ago. This is where the arrest comes in. I am telling you this because I want to warn all of you who are strict 'accuracy only' readers. As much as I wish I could drown mself in research of British Law, I feel that the time it would take for me to be totally accurate on all aspects of it may take away from the fic in general. I have a weird work schedule as it is, and as much as I love writing and updating, it is hard enough for me to keep up with that. It's been a while since I was on a writing binge, sadly, but I am hoping to at least keep up with updating what I can every few days or even within one week, rather than write a lot and then make people wait for a month to see something new. I wish that I had the time and to be quite honest, the patience to delve into research of Law, British or American, to keep everything in my fic totally accurate. But the whole reason I started this story was to look into the emotional state of Sherlock throughout the development of the story, as well as the other characters. It is probably a huge mistake to do that, tying it into a criminal issue that requires research, but this if fanfiction, not a book. (Not that I am discounting, but I know for a fact when I read these stories I am much more looking into angst and drama and fluff rather than how close we kept to reality. That’s what fanfiction is for, right?  
> That being said, I apologize to the American who may be disappointed with this generally, or the Brits who may be disappointed with the “Americanization” of the things going on here. I hope that you can look past these things when reading this, and if not, I’m sorry to have led you to a dead end.  
> My last comment would be about my writing itself. Let me start off by telling you that I know how to spell. I am somewhat of a grammar Nazi, and any wrong use of ‘there, they’re and their’ and I’m out. The only reason I am reassuring you that I am semi-adequate of writing responsibly is to say that there will be typos. I may be able to write, but I type badly. I have a beta, I have more than one actually, and I try my best to look over my work before I post. And even after sometimes. Just this week I went through a one-shot for the hell of it, clicking ‘edit’ and resaving over ten times, all for little typos-forgotten letters, a wrong spacing, etc. In my defense I also have Word 7. Anyone who uses word 7 may understand my frustration. I notice things that Word 7 totally neglects instead of saying that I should add an S to that word that I really don’t need an S on. The margins suck, the paragraphing is always wrong, and it’s very hard to work with. Maybe there is a better thing out there, but it’s what I use. There will be silly typos on my works, and I am sorry for that. But you know I am not the only one that has them, and surely not the worst of them, either. I just wanted to throw all of this out there in the hopes that maybe I won’t get as many comments about “do you have a beta because I see some typos” and so on and so forth. I do have a beta, but sometimes when it’s 4 am and you both are flailing over a line you wrote or an idea you had it’s just the overwhelming feeling that makes you click “post” before doing an in-depth search of little mistakes. As much as I am the perfectionist, when I read stories as long as I understand, a typo here or there makes no difference to me. Sometimes it just happens. That being said, I am in the process of currently going through previous chapters and hopefully in the near future they will all be re-edited. Sorry for any anger there.  
> I will step down now, and let you read. I hope that you enjoy my works and would love any review you have for me! Thank so much, Cortni <3  
> ***

"I do not understand," Mycroft snarled on the phone. "You should know more by now!"

"They won't let me in, sir." Anthea's voice was hushed and Mycroft could hear loud noises from the background, including John's voice. "They won't let John in either, or the Detective Inspector."

Before Mycroft could respond, the phone had obviously been taken away and someone new was on the line. John's voice ripped through the phone, and Mycroft had to hold the phone slightly away from his ear.

"Mycroft, what the hell is going on?!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I wasn't even there, John. How would I know?"

"Well, you _are_ the British Government." He bit out the last words. "I can't even _see_ Sherlock, they won't let me!"

"I will fix that, I assure you. I will be there soon. Please let me speak to Anthea now." There was quiet on the line and soon Anthea's voice was there, gentle and feminine. It was a weird comfort to Mycroft, but he trusted her voice before anyone else’s’. "Sir?"

"Get him calmed down, would you? And tell Lestrade to find out anything he can before I get there."

"Yes sir." The phone clicked.

Mycroft looked out of the window, sighing. The car turned down a street, then another, but Mycroft paid no attention. It was only when he noticed a few small crowds gathered on the sidewalk in front of the hospital that he focused his gaze. The groups were small, maybe 50 people total, but they were shouting. Mycroft readied his umbrella as the car slowed down close to a huddle of people. He laced a finger into the door handle and pushed it open.

Immediately there were flashes. It was cloudy outside, Mycroft was sure, but camera flashes and bright white signs were surrounding him, making it hard to see. He pushed into the group, ignoring the yells in his ears, and kept walking to get to the door. All of the questions being thrown at him were melded together.

“Mr. Holmes, do you believe your brother is innocent?”

“Mr. Holmes, do you think your brother was using his ‘detective’ skills to-

“Mr. Holmes, we hear Sherlock informed you the night he committed the murder. What can you say-“

Well, this was just getting ridiculous. Mycroft refrained against looking at anyone in particular. But one question stood out above the rest, stopping his train of thought.

“Mr. Holmes, it’s been said that your brother has autistic tendencies. Do you think he knew what he was doing when he killed-“

Mycroft stopped walking and turned to his right, where the voice was shouting in his ear. He looked at the woman’s face- _less than a full night’s sleep, makeup from the night before, no time to style hair-_ and he looked at her, gaze hardening.

The woman stopped talking and looked back at him, face inscrutable. Her camera man lowered the camera for a second. For one split second, Mycroft could hear nothing but the woman’s breathing. He composed himself and turned back around, and the surrounding noise returned in his head. He pushed past a few more people, making it to the door.

The receptionist at the front desk gaped at him. He raised an eyebrow.

“Sherlock Holmes?” he said simply, and she nodded, opening a drawer. She hands him a ID card.

“A call said you were coming,” she stood up. “You’ll still need your regular ID-“

“I am aware,” Mycroft said impatiently. “Where?”

“Erm, he’s just been moved. Seventh floor, room 714.” She bites her lip.

“Seventh floor-“ Mycroft starts to ask.

“Psychiatric ward, sir. He’s been…well, a nurse called to warn you. He’s not acting normal.”

Mycroft sighed and turned. “When did he?” He walked briskly and went toward the elevator. The doors close and he leans back against the metal railing along the wall, pressing the right button. The ride took too long and was too short at the same time.

 **On the elevator. MH**

***

Anthea looked from her phone to the elevator’s doors at the end of the hall, standing. John stood, too, involuntarily.

“Is he here?” He asked, but she only watched the elevator.

Soon the doors opened and Mycroft stepped in, being stopped by the receptionist at the desk close by. After a few moments he walked in John and Anthea’s direction, grave look on his face. The officer guarding Sherlock’s room steps forward to stop him. John rolled his eyes.

“Mycroft Holmes. Brother.” He pulled out two ID badges and held them out for the officer, who nodded.

“You can see him, you’re family.”

Mycroft knew that wasn’t the reason, but he nodded. “Anyone can see him. I’ll allow it.” The officer hesitates but nods, stepping back to the room’s door.

John stood and immediately went to the door, but Mycroft stopped him with one hand.

“What?” John snarled. Mycroft gave him a look.

“John, I need you to tell me if he said anything. _Anything._ ” He grips John’s shoulder, looking into his eyes. John shakes his head.

“I asked him why he…why he took the drugs, but he said…he couldn’t tell me. Next thing I knew, he was handcuffed. That was it.”

“Did they say anything about-“

But Mycroft was cut off by a loud yell, one that he and John knew well. It was a frustrated groan, one Sherlock usually made with cases or insufferable relatives or flatmates. John rushed to the door, opening it and looking inside. The officer beside peeked in too, Mycroft pushing past him.

Sherlock was thrashing in his bed. He shook his head and kicked his legs, and the handcuffs were cutting lines into his wrists. But he kept moving, tossing back and forth, and John rushed to the bed, trying to push him down and calm him. Mycroft went to the other side of the bed, holding Sherlock’s left side down and trying to get his attention but to no avail. Sherlock was yelling now, loud. Mycroft yelled over him and called for a nurse, but Anthea had already went for one. Mycroft looked at John, who was holding Sherlock’s head still with one hand and his hand with the other.

“Why’s he doing this?!” Mycroft said loudly.

“I don’t know, it could be anything. Withdrawal, maybe. Probably-“ He grunts, Sherlock struggling against him, “The emotional trauma!.” A nurse finally comes in and sedates him. Within thirty seconds Sherlock becomes still and look serene. John stands back, rubbing the back of his head, and Mycroft just looks down at him.

“Some bandages for his hand, Nurse?” He gestures to Sherlock’s wrists, new blood trickling.

“Of course,” She leaves quickly, returns and tends to Sherlock’s wrists (all the while John and Mycroft watching, silently), and nods to them.

“Thank you,” John says quietly, and she smiles, shutting the door behind her. He sits down in the hair closest to Sherlock. Mycroft sighs.

“What of the girl, then?” John says to him.

“I do not know. She was seventeen, John.” His eyes met John’s and they said nothing for a moment. John sat upright in his chair.

“But…it’s Sherlock. Why would he?”

Mycroft looks at him. “Are you questioning him being guilty?”

John shifts in his seat. “Mycroft, he solves crimes for a living. That’s hardly a trait of a killer.”

“And he had a drug problem that apparently recently resurfaced. He’s irritable, moody, a “loner” as they call, and thinks of himself above all else. What traits are those?”

John’s gaze narrowed. “That is your brother you’re talking about. You remember that?” But Mycroft shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter, John. Look.” He steps to the window overlooking the front of the hospital. John stands and walks to where he is, looking down from the window. His eyes grow wide at the crowd there. A few of the people are looking up, and for a second he could have sworn they were looking right at him. Mycroft shut the blinds quickly, and the room went dark.

“A young girl is dead, John. To the public, to her family, that is all that matters. Whether or not Sherlock killed her is entirely based on the evidence we find. Which, at this point in time, is none.”

John looked at Sherlock, eyes closed as if he were sleeping. Mycroft sidestepped to the foot of the bed.

“If you were the girl’s father, how would you feel? Seeing the news, knowing the killer’s history like we do here.”

“I’d want him dead.” John said admittedly. “But he would never-“

“Ah, never say never, John. Once, Sherlock told me he’d never use again. This is the fourth time since then he’s been hospitalized for an overdose since then.” Mycroft sighed and lightly pushed a curl off of Sherlock’s face.

And it was then that John looked at Mycroft, really looked at him. His face seemed to have a few more definitive lines than when they first met. His hair was thinner and for some reason, him standing over Sherlock like that, John felt that a passerby might have thought they were father and son. Sherlock looked much younger than he did, eyes closed and unmoving. John felt as if he were intruding. But soon, Mycroft turned to him and gave a grave smile.

“Let’s see what we can find, then?” He patted Sherlock’s hand lightly and walked to the room door, opening it.

John walked over to beside Sherlock and squeezed his arm for a minute, then followed Mycroft. He shut the door behind him quietly, as if he would wake Sherlock. But he reminded himself that Sherlock wasn't listening. Maybe Sherlock wasn't even in there. Maybe it was someone else.


End file.
